


Hatchling

by Laylah



Category: Final Fantasy XII, Suikoden V
Genre: Crossover, Dragon Horses, Gen, Knight Cadets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-22
Updated: 2008-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-12 20:05:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are arguments about whether a foal in the egg can hear the voice of its rider, but Basch has always figured he'd rather assume it can than it can't. He doesn't have much to lose by it, and maybe it'll already know him a bit, when it hatches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hatchling

Vossler has been insufferable for weeks now. His dragon foal was the first to hatch out of this year's eggs, _and_ she came out a glossy, volcanic black. Only a few each year hatch in colors other than the usual Feitas green, and Basch has been trying to tell himself he'll be fine with a standard breed, but he can't help just a bit of jealousy anyway. It's a great honor to have chosen an egg at all -- to have passed the dragon cavalry apprenticeship, and reached the point where he'll have a horse of his own -- but it's only natural to hope for one of the fancy ones, isn't it?

So far Vossler's irascible little filly is the only odd color to hatch this year, and unless Basch gets lucky it might stay that way. She knows she's the pick of the clutch, too, rearing back and bristling her little ruff in challenge, honking a warning before she charges across the paddock toward the other foals, her tail extended like a rudder behind her.

"She's not going to know what to do with herself when we get back to the castle and she has full-grown stallions to contend with," Basch says. He hasn't gotten to spend much time watching the foals this year -- since his own egg hasn't hatched, he keeps having to go back into the cave to keep vigil, emerging only for quick meals and enough sunlight to keep himself from going mad in there.

"She'll do fine," Vossler says. He leans on the paddock fence, beaming at his little monster. "At this rate she'll be half grown by the time we get back, anyway. Or are you giving up on that stubborn egg of yours?"

Basch rolls his eyes. "Of course not," he says. He gestures with what's left of his sandwich. "I just needed some rations to keep me going."

Vossler spares him a glance, probably only because his filly has stopped to scratch at her ruff. "That's the spirit. You can outlast him if you try."

There are far too many ways Vossler could mean that, and Basch is fair-skinned enough to blush if he thinks of the wrong ones, so he should be going. "You just wait," he says. "I'll wind up with a beauty. You'll see."

He polishes off the last of his sandwich and jogs back down to the mouth of the hatchery cave, half-hidden behind the waterfall. It's been the hereditary laying ground of the dragon horses since before there ever was a Feitas River Dragon Cavalry to ride them; as long as anyone can remember, no dragon mare has ever laid her eggs anywhere else. But knowing that has never helped Basch like it any better, not really. It's a cave, dark and confining and still, and he loves the cavalry for the chance to _move_ , fast and free with the spray of water in the air and the warmth of the sun on his face. He picks his way over the damp rocks up to the nest, where Tomaj, one of the younger apprentices, has been keeping watch in case the egg started to crack while Basch was getting food.

"All right," Basch says, offering a hand to help the boy up. "I'll take over from here."

"Almost ready, you think?" Tomaj asks, grinning at him.

"Let's hope so," Basch says. "I'm ready to go back to the castle any time."

Tomaj nods. "Good luck!" he says, and waves as he heads off toward the light at the cave's mouth.

"You hear that?" Basch says, sinking to the straw beside his egg. "Everyone's waiting for you." Only that doesn't sound very kind, so he adds, "I'll wait as long as you want, you know. As long as it takes. But aren't you getting impatient at all? Ready to stretch your legs and run?"

There are arguments about whether a foal in the egg can hear the voice of its rider, but Basch has always figured he'd rather assume it can than it can't. He doesn't have much to lose by it, and maybe it'll already know him a bit, when it hatches.

"We'll have such a good time together," Basch promises. "You'll see. We'll go running on the river together, and find sunny spots for basking, and no matter how much Vossler's little brat hogs everyone's attention, I'll make sure you get the tastiest fish at the castle, all right? We're going to have a lot of adventures, you and I." He thinks he might have seen the egg move just now, but the dim light in here might be playing tricks on his eyes, too. "Here," he says, digging in his pocket. "Listen."

He wets his lips and raises his flute so he can play. The first few notes are the start of the calling song, to bring a dragon horse to its rider's side, but that doesn't feel right and Basch stops after the second bar. He takes a deep breath and starts over, something else -- a song that isn't _for_ anything, as far as he knows. One of the pieces written by Rania Spell-singer, who was supposed to be able to hear music in breath, in starlight. "The Falls of Sol-Falena," this one's called, though most people Basch knows just call it "The Falls." It took months of practice before he could play the whole thing without his fingers tripping over themselves of his breath running short at the wrong moment, but it was worth the effort. The song captures everything he loves about the cavalry -- the brilliance of light on water, the rush of motion, the _freedom_ of skimming light-footed over plains and rivers both. At the peak of the verse he can almost believe he sees the gleaming white marble of the royal city, perched over the sacred waters of the Feitas --

And the first crack runs down the shell of the egg, bold and jagged. Basch's breath catches, and he loses his place in the tune.

"You want to see it, too, do you?" he asks the egg. His heart is suddenly pounding. "Got your attention?"

He raises the flute to his lips again and starts the song over again -- if his foal wants coaxing, he can do that. He plays more quietly this time, so he can hear the cracking of the thick shell. Soon. Soon he'll see -- and he knows he'll be looking at a green, and that's fine; it'll still be _his_ foal, his partner, to raise and ride and train with. A little piece falls away from the shell, enough to give the foal its first taste of air.

Basch can't help it. He tucks the flute away. "Coming out to say hello?" he asks. "I've been looking forward to meeting you so much."

The egg wobbles, and there's a soft chirring noise from inside.

Basch laughs softly, giddy with nerves. "You want a hand?" he asks. The crack spreads a little further down the shell. All the older cavalrymen say it's a terrible idea to reach into an egg, a sure way to lose fingertips, but -- "You're not about to hurt me, are you?" He reaches up, curls his fingers carefully around the broken edges of the shell. The inside is wet, faintly slimy.

His foal makes another little curious sound, and then Basch feels scales against his fingertips. He tenses, tries not to pull back -- but the foal doesn't bite, only licks his fingers with its raspy little tongue.

"That's right," Basch whispers. "We're going to be good friends. Now, let's see if we can get a look at each other, right?" He pulls, slowly, wary of the sharp edges. The shell cracks and splits open, pieces coming away in Basch's hands, and the foal peers out at him. Its eyes are bright and curious, unafraid, and its scales -- Basch stares, awed.

Its scales are golden as the sun.


End file.
